The World's Most Hellacious Love Story
by Kenny-chan Can't Spelll
Summary: Prompt- AU where Dean owns a record shop and Cas owns a bookshop right beside it, and they both hate each other for stupid petty reasons and they constantly trade insults; one day Cas tells Dean to shut up, and Dean says "make me" and smirks, so Cas shoves him right up against the wall and bites his lower lip (ﾉTヮT)ﾉ*:･ﾟ "


**_(* ˘⌣˘)◞Kenny-chan Cant Spelll_****_ヽ(•‿• )_**

_Authors Notes: _  
_Hello friends (￣▽￣)/ _  
_Here is a nice new Destiel story brought to you by the tumblr prompt:_  
_"AU where Dean owns a record shop and Cas owns a bookshop right beside it, and they both hate each other for stupid petty reasons and they constantly trade insults; one day Cas tells Dean to shut up, and Dean says "make me" and smirks, so Cas shoves him right up against the wall and bites his lower lip (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧"_  
_OKAY ENJOY_

**Warnings:**

**-Rated: Mature**

**- Loooooove (•ิ_•ิ) **Dean x Castiel and side Gabriel x Sam_ (jokes/mentions/one sided: Cas x Sam, Gabriel x Sam, Gabriel x Dean, Meg x Cas, Meg x Crowley Chuck x Becky, Balthazar x Everything that can make a guttural noise.) _**  
**

**-Violence (ᗒᗣᗕ)՞  
**

**- Mention of Drug abuse (ＴДＴ）**

**- Character Death ( p′︵‵。)**

**-Swearing - =͟͟͞͞ ( ꒪౪꒪)ฅ✧**

**-Smutt (¬‿¬)**

**Disclaimer: Sadly Supernatural is not, and will never be mine.**

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* * *

The town of Stoneham Massachusetts seemed like any other run-of-the-mill kind of towns. The houses were decent, the location was borderline, and the schools were average.

If not worse.

But for what Stoneham lacked in luxury, the citizens made up for with _character._ Two people to be precise. The two known as Dean Winchester and Castiel Novak. Yet, this is not a boisterous city but a thin suburban town and when two men, each of which having enough character to fill every crescent of Chicago, collide in such small premises, pandemonium was bound to occur.

Six months ago, when Castiel Novak, an empire state building of a guy, asked upon the local realtor Mr. Crowley where he should open his bookstore, the man had one devious location picked out; next to the proud and tall record store, the one owned by a Shanghai Square of a man; Dean Winchester.

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* * *

It was five o'clock, five o'clock in the morning, five o'-_fucking_-clock AM and Castiel wasn't about to take this shit. The man was standing outside his quaint little nook 'Feathered Prints' with a face so ballistic, it could scare the cat from the canary. It was in the low thirties, a typical November morning in the icebox that was New England.

Castiel was draped in a dark blue long-sleeve tee, clearly meant for sizes a good three inches taller than his own five' eleven frame. (2*) His maroon and yellow flannel pants were rolled thick at his hips to prevent the inevitable wet ground from seeping around his ankles. Alas, even with the three-sum rolls, Castiel's pants still dragged, being barely propped up by his black slippers. These slippers serving as the one article of clothing that did not seem to swish about as he slapped his icy fingers hard against his five o'clock shadow. Five-ten o'clock shadow at this point.

Truth be told, Castiel was just trying to recycle.

The man let out a growl as he rubbed up and down his prickly cheeks, bending forward to glare at a grey blot of snow. Castiel did not want to be out here, and like most people, he would so much rather be wrapped in a knitted blanket, still willing the day until a more righteous hour such as, say nine, rear its sunshiny face.

But, no.

Here he was, trying to be a good person. And yet again, God did spite him. No, wait, not God. The alternative.

All he had to do was bring a bag of paper-esk materials out every Wednesday morning just out the door of his shop. Literally, it was just outside, a mere seven steps from the unpolished wood door. He just had to plop his bag full of maniculatus items in the green bucket set out, so that somewhere between five and six thirty (there was no way of knowing what route the truck would take), a nice Eco-friendly company would come and make use of whatever it was Castiel was throwing away.

The system was flawless, even for forgetful people such as Castiel whom would often not remember to put such recyclables out after closing on Tuesdays, and he could then bike to work (gas being too expensive now a days) and complete the act that morning.

That is, if there was in fact the green recycle bin that he had obtained, supplying as not only a place to put the bag, but also as the only signal to hail the ecologically friendly company truck over.

It's not like Castiel Novak was some global-warming nut or anything, the man was simply concerned for the future of the next generations and them missing out on the true beauties of the world. And polar bears. And such.

Castiel thought it was the least he could do considering he owned a _paper _filled _book store _for God's sake.

And after all this work, waking up early, rushing out in the freezing cold in his pjs, hoping to not be spotted by any customers or family members, Castiel was less than pleased to know that yet again this green bin of glory was in fact missing. Scratch that, stolen.

No, this was not the smiting of any God or angelic being. It was in fact the entire opposite.

Lifting now clenched fingers from his scowl, Castiel straightened up, turning to face the atrocity that stood before him. A square and loud little shop with the big red letters with a golden outlining reading 'From the Devil's Tongue'.

"Screw you, Dean Winchester," Castiel roared, "and your little record store, too!"

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* * *

In another part of town, Dean rolled the tips of his fingers against the steering wheel, a defiant smirk riding his features. Unlike the other pea of the pod, Dean's face read nothing but delight, even at the ungodly hour. Dean Winchester, although contrary to popular belief, actually had no problem with early morning activities. This doesn't mean the man does not enjoy sleeping in late and rising up with the moon, because he of course he did, just not as much when opportunities as _sweet_ as this one showed up.

As a heavy snicker left his lips, Dean's vision darted to the rear-view mirror, and he could have sworn the green plastic bin laying in the backseat winked back at him.

The whole plot kind of just came to him in his sleep.

He was dreaming a dream he couldn't quite remember when two angry blue eyes rolled in, and suddenly, Dean was seeing nothing but the good-for-nothing guy working his ass off to save the environment, sweating and panting even under the chilly November air. He was a mess, as usual, hair wild, eyes _wilder_, and of course, never a clean shave along his jaw. It was then Dean woke up in a sweat, knowing exactly what needed to be done. His body, mind and heart wanted nothing but to _piss this guy off._

It had been a more difficult task then Dean had previously thought it would be, the idea of snatching the bin from the sidewalk just before his 'good friend_'_ Castiel Novak would be undoubtedly be filling up in the early morning. Due to the guys immense stupidity of forgetting to fill it the day before, it seemed pretty simple. Wake up before the black haired prom queen and drive off, never to be seen again.

Instead Dean was faced with innumerous difficulties.

First of which, he was unsure of when it was the recycle truck would come, and what day. He previously thought correctly that Wednesday was indeed the day they made their rounds, but a doubt slowly crept into his mind. Then, he began to question the time.

What if they already emptied the green bin? Dean would have no way of knowing since either way the bucket would be empty when he picked it up, and holding onto the green thing for an entire week would make him feel pretty freaking stupid. He decided checking the website of whoever it was that collected the garbage was his best bet.

He soon realized he had no idea what the goddam company was even called.

Dean ended up driving down the streets looking for any neighbor who had one of those green bins, knowing for sure that they listed the company name. After a while Dean found out that Castiel was one of the only people in the entire town of freaking Stoneham who recycled, and after making three loops around the town, he went to his work place. Which, if he did in the first place, would have saved him twenty plus minutes.

And somewhere between the actions of calling 411 to connect him to the 'ECO G.T.V' or whatever the hell it was, and treading through a pile of damned slush did

Dean Winchester, momentarily doubt, if he had interpreted the true meaning of his previous dream incorrectly.

It was only for a moment however, as much to his delight he was informed that he still had a good handful of minutes before the trucks even left.

So yes, there was a whole lot of effort that went into Dean's little prank, but as he pulled into his hand selected parking place, the spot just beyond the fire hydrant and slightly past the crosswalk (so that no reckless driver could park anywhere near his 2005 Ford Fusion without the tow-truck picking them up like a drunk schoolgirl stumbling into a frat,) his grin neither faulted nor shrunk, but grew ten-fold as a man in oversized pajamas and slight stubble, was cursing into the air, flailing middle-fingers like he discovered the things for the first time today.

It was only Five thirty and Dean's day was already made.

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* * *

"Which of Stephen King's did you find more _terrorizing_ Castiel, Cujo or Misery?" Becky, as Castiel knew her as, and one of his top customers, asked, her thin hands rubbing the cover of both books. "I already read Pet Cemetery last week, and I'm just looking for something new, you know? To, like, get my mind off it."

"Maybe then, you should choose something _other _than a horror story, Becky." Chuck, Becky's boyfriend of a few weeks, commented. He was a scruffy guy, and also a regular at 'Feathered Prints'. Castiel would think the two of them were being cute right now, Chuck's words somewhat annoyed but lingering with a caring tone, meanwhile his hands rubbed uneasily against the small of her back. They were new to be a true couple, but Castiel remembered clearly the dreamy glances casted at each other when they first would browse around his shop a few months ago. Chuck the wanna-be H.P. Lovecraft and Becky the avid bookworm.

But Castiel is in a horrible mood and probably wouldn't even smile if Chuck proposed to Becky right then and there.

"You know I can't rest till I've read each of King's works, front to back!" Becky said, turning to her other with wide eyes.

"That might take a while Back… considering theres, like, more than seventy of them…" Chuck grumbled now shifting back and forth.

"So, Castiel," She said, entirely ignoring the man beside her, "what do you think?"

He sighed, rubbing his aching head before turning around and moving off to a large maze of books. The place, although a bookstore, appeared as a comfy nook. The shelves, floor and walls, all built of dark woods, some glossier than others. The windows were always drawn with off white shutter lines and the place itself was filled with a warm, creaky shade. Although the store was indeed dim, it was brightened by large embroidered chairs, rugs, and coffee table, a small lantern and an assortment of pillows at each cavern of the store.

'Feathered Prints' has been officially open for business for a mere five months, yet Castiel had already gathered a noble set of hardcover, soft-cover, used, new, mystery, romance, horror, and comedy to poetry book collection. He would spend the majority of his time, doting on each section, finding his preferences in all sorts of areas. For example, although he had less skill in gardening then he did flying jet planes, Castiel was enamored by books with bright flowers and growing methods. He deemed orchids his favorite and decided that before he died, he would grow an orchid garden, even though New England weather would surely permit it (orchids need to grow in temperature between 70 and 80 degrees fahrenheit).

Castiel knew the collection far better, he learned from an anatomy, then the back of his hands (were twenty-seven bones are located). His palms dipped forward after stopping at a shelf he could located with or without sight graced by his 'oculus'.

With a dreary sigh and thought directed at a dark caffeinated drink, Castiel slugged back to his desk, lazily plopping the hardcover book against the wood counter.

"This is 'The Stand,' the books you're looking at, although great, are not supernatural," Castiel mumbled, clearing his throat to lock eyes with the eager looking girl caught up in every one of his words, as if he was King himself, "I personally am more into realistic horror, but I know you enjoy such things."

Becky nodded quickly eagerly grabbing the book of the desk and holding up like the little Simba it was.

"'The Stand' was one of King's finest. Its set in an apocalypse brought on by the Government letting a bastardly horrid sickness loose. There are but a thousand immune and these are the ones needing to stop a demonic villain known as the 'Dark One'. King captures-"

"No spoilers!" Becky yelped, slamming a light handful of dollars and coins upon the mahogany.

Castiel watched her determined expression for a moment before nodding, determined not to roll his eyes.

"Hey, you okay Castiel? You seem a little..." He didn't need to look up from the register to know that Chuck was moving his hands around.

"Okay? As in functioning, yes. Normal? No. I am no longer running on energy, but pure animosity." The man behind the counter hummed, glancing up to the weary (and wearing) couple.

"My God, what happened?-"

"Becky," Castiel cut her off abruptly, "it wasn't any act of God. It was an act of pure human fuckery." (1*)

The girl paused, staring into the heavy blue. Castiel leaned over, tapping a thin finger against her hard-cover book, ending her desperate search.

Instantly her features shifted, an open mouth smile and bright eyes were ever present as she grabbed Chuck's wrist and marched out to store, the ringing of the hanging bell doing wonder's on Castiel's headache.

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* * *

Dean spun loops around his record store, running his worn fingers across an endless selection of 'The Who,' 'Led Zeppelin,' and more 'Black Sabbath' then the eye could see. It was in Dean's best interest to make his shop as welcoming as it could be, for thanks to iTunes, Pandora, and all the other ways people were getting music online put Dean's business in jeopardy. It seemed the goofball next door had yet to realize this as the darkness cast off by his store quite literally crept onto the sidewalk.

Unlike 'Feather Prints,' 'From The Devil's Tongue' was entirely bright, open, standout-ish, and incredibly simple with design, despite the name. Ironic really, considering you didn't need light to hear music, but to read it was a necessity. Yet hear Dean was, surrounded by massive glass windows, beige wood work, and white tiled floors. The music some may say was ancient (much of it released between the late 60's and early 80's) yet the wide room itself very modern. Dean started off only supplying his personal favorite, the 70's rock era, and just that, but slowly he realized that he would need to broaden his horizon if wanting to draw in anyone younger than the age of fifty-two. Slowly more modern bands, such as 'The Black Keys,' 'Cage the Elephant' and 'The Red Hot Chili Peppers' became slightly more occurrent.

Just as predicted, small clusters of teenagers filtered through the shop from day to day, currently a small group crowded around a collection by 'The Cold War Kids'. However, unexpectedly one boy, probably around eighteen or nineteen stood entirely alone, his palms musing over a selection produced by 'AC/DC'.

Entirely intrigued, Dean, still straddling the back of a black wheelie-chair, pushed himself around to wear the high schooler was browsing.

His eyes were hazy lost Dean doubted if he even heard him squeaking behind him, yet a strange smile stayed on his face. He was definitely enjoying whatever it was he was doing.

"Whatcha lookin' at there?" As if to prove Deans point, the boy laughed, looking all too relaxed. He was shortish, and not too lean, a 'Grateful Dead' shirt proudly hanging from his shoulders. If that didn't spike Dean's interest, then the poorly cut, but blatantly obvious, mullet did. This kid was clearly a pot-head.

"Just try'na ya know," the boy said, leaning back against the shelf awkwardly, "catch some sweet vibes."

"Uh-huh." Dean smirked, his lids low and eyebrow slanted. Oh, he knew alright. "Name?"

"Ash. Wait. Shit man. Why?" Ash here, was now paranoid beyond belief.

"Nothin'. Just make sure you don't start munching out on my disks, okay?" Dean said, resting his chin on the top of the back-rest.

Ash nodded once all of that previous fear drying up before treading back over the display.

"You sure 'AC/DC' is really for you?" Dean said after watching the kids back sway between the set-up, "I peg you more for a 'Sublime' kind of guy."

Ash let out a low sigh as he turned back to face Dean, a now sarcastic kind of thoughtful dressing his face.

"I know what you're thinking man, and yeah, okay, it's kinda true, but I really do like Rock n' Roll, and these guys keep showin' up on my Pandora and, dammit man, we should all just like what we like, like man, who even goes by stereotypes anymore?"

Dean held back a laugh. Poorly.

"Well if you wanna start with the basics," Dean said, his fingers clasping around a black album with big black letters across the case, "this is where you wanna start."

"'Back in Black'? What's this there most famous album or somthin'?" Ash said, taking the plastic out of Dean's fingers and holding it far too close to his face.

"Most famous and probably the best, although I do also like 'Highway To Hell'. If I were you though, I'd get this one."

Ash lowered the album, his rosy whites narrowing slightly, "Why?"

"Why?" Dean repeated loudly, his body arching forward as a bellowing laugh escaped his lips, "I'll tell you why kid, this album changed lives, _fucking lives_. Not like this is some girly, get in with your feeling kinda shit though, it just made people _bad-ass!_ The lyrics here are simple and awesome, nothing to distract you as Malcolm and Angus rip the tracks apart with their guitar riffs, and get this, the album is a tribute to Bon Scott, who died right after they finished the album. _The _Bon Scott,how awesome is that?"

Ash paused, staring warily at Dean as he lit up like a Christmas Tree.

"Dude, how old are you? You know this stuff too well. Were you there or something?" (*2)

"Hey, fuck you." Now a Christmas tree in late july. "I'm twenty nine, and I own a record store, I'm supposed to know this shit. Now you gonna buy it or not?"

"Uh, y-yeah man. Of course."

The two walked back to the front of the store, Dean's register resting upon a high table besides the window, giving the man a pleasant view of the rest of the street. That currently includes a shoveling Castiel clearing his entryway of snow.

Dean grinned. He looked no happier than he did this morning.

"Thanks for helping me out today man, appreciate it. Oh, I want in in vinyl by the way." Ash said as Dean absently nodded grabbing a bigger vintage disk and gliding it along the scanner, his eyes trained were on the man who seemed to be overly aggressive with his shoveling. Dean thought it may have had something to do with the guilt of being not so green. Suddenly his eyes fell upon a massive thermo that no doubt, was fill to the brim with coffee. He guessed that the brunette had put his hot caffeinated drink to the side of the sidewalk so that he could simply grab it when he finished plowing.

"That will be fifteen-" Just then Dean Winchester got another great idea.

"Uh… you there man… I thought I was the stoned one…"

"You know what," Dean grinned, waving the vinyl in hand, "you can have this for free."

"Woah, man really? That's chill of you."

"Yeah, all you gotta do," The cheshire cat said, "is kick that guy's coffee over."

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* * *

Castiel dug his upper teeth into his lower lip. Not a thoughtful sort of nip, but an actual chomp. His crisp November Wednesday did not get any better from this morning, and seemed to be on a continued spiral to hell. After Mr. Dean, douchbag, Winchester stole his recycle bin (which the brunette is still yet to reprimand him for), Castiel got a call from none other than Mr. Crowley, the landowner of the entire Fifth avenue of Stoneham. He was demanding payment for this month before the end of the week.

Fifth Avenue was a major street in Stoneham, just not a main one. It was fairly busy, holding six buildings, all lined up in a row. Each building was paired off with another, the two standing only three or four feet from another, creating a thin alleyway in between each set. The sets were separated by a side street, so that it would take a crosswalk, or an empty road, to travel from a building of one pair to another.

A gas station run by Bobby Singer a grumpy and level headed older man, and a small pub owned by a woman named Ellen and her daughter Jo, both of which welcoming but somewhat sly, were the first pair on Fifth ave.

Castiel and Dean's shops stood in the center, and just beyond them Gabriel, the book seller's brother, owned a candy store. He would often stop by, even though both him and Castiel shared a tightly packed apartment. Next to Gabe's little sweet shop did Balthazar, a cousin to the two, and a handful of others reside in a local bank.

It was just a pocket of people, each trying get by under the scorching flame of Mr. Crowley. It is expected for a landlord to seek payment for his property, but what this man did was different. With a front face of sincerity and knowledge, lured people in, offering them all but kindness, until that is, they sign onto the property.

Mr. Crowley found Castiel while he was taking notes at the library. Once the man realized Castiel was not taking notes on any book or newspaper, but the actual library itself, he began his little scheme. Castiel bought the property while Crowley took him out to dinner, ordering the most expensive champagne for the two of them, smiling as he handed Castiel the final contract.

From the moment Castiel's cursive line separated from the page, the atmosphere shifted. Mr. Crowley got up from the table, and drove off in his car, not another word, not a dollar for the bill or luxury alcohol. Caught under the devil's trap.

Mr. Crowley would raise rents dependent on the amount of liquor in his belly and cash in his pocket. He would maneuver through loopholes, snaking, so that someone would need to pay before the end of the month. Anyone who goes against him regrets it. He smiles at you, buys you a box of quality caramels, and rips your business (as well as a few other things) to shreds.

Today he wants the rent for each pair to be paid a week or so in advance. He argues this is fair because of the cost of salting the sidewalks. If anyone mentions that salting the sidewalks was paid for by the town, then their rent would be tripled till the end of the next year.

In turn Castiel was put under the ringer.

Ever since the fucking 'Kindle' became invented, things weren't easy, but Castiel did all he could.

Even now, Castiel shoveled along the sidewalks, making his small building just a bit more welcoming.

The man grunted, his eyes flickering up to the thermos sitting against his store. Castiel told himself that only after he's finished clearing the walkway, could he indulge in its hot taste, which was surprisingly hard to come by for the brunette. Castiel had yet to buy a coffee maker for the bookstore, and as long as the rent kept coming as it was, it would be a long time before his coffee was instant.

After clearing another three feet Castiel was faced with a standstill. The termination zone. The one before the alleyway, the gap dictating the store of Dean Winchester's from his own.

He pursed his lips, squinting to into the thin snow flooring that fell just beyond his toes.

Castiel fought between two things. One, Dean would have to pay the rent early as well.

Also, how bitterly cold it was.

Castiel was thoughtful for a moment before readjusting the scarf around his neck. With a shallow puff of air, he bent back down, clearing a visible pathway to the center of Dean's shop.

He grumbled something about hell before throwing his mittens off, seemingly less satisfied than when he ten minutes ago.

Stuffing the wool material into his coat pocket Castiel turned around, dragging his shovel back towards his own shop. He turned just in time to see it.

A purposely placed kick by some punk, hollering, "Long live rock n' roll!" as Castiel's thermos tipped.

Castiel quivered. His entire body shook. Watching, as the coffee coated the sidewalk. Crying for someone to drink it.

That wasn't the only thing Castiel got the chance to see.

He also watched the punk turn back around, shoot him with a finger gun, and high-five Dean Winchester.

One hundred things exploded between Castiel's ears as that same teenager ran out the record store.

"Thanks for the vinyl, man!" He said, waving a large paper square behind his back.

Castiel didn't even hear him for he was already leaping through Dean's door.

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* * *

By the time Castiel slammed his fists against the front desk, Dean was cackling. The man's face in his palms and not even the background voice of Bon Jovi screaming the words "It's My Life," could block out his bellows as they echoed throughout the store.

"Winchester," Castiel hissed, two icy cold eyes blaring.

"Hah-hey, bu-buddy," Dean breathed through his laughter, subsequently wiping a tear from his eye.

"I am not your buddy, you fuck-hole, shit-head, of a man."

Dean clapped his hands together, dressed in a grin that could swallow the better part of Texas, "Woah Cas, did ya' make those up all on your own?"

"For the last time Winchester, it's not _Cas_." The brunette bit back, his lips clamped tightly together.

"Awe, come on," Dean ushered, crossing his arms and peering down through hooded eyes, "I know you like it."

"Burn in hell."

Dean sniggered, his callous smile wide, "We'll someone's in a bad mood!"

Castiel was squinting so forcefully at this point, the man would have wrinkles before he hit thirty. "I wonder why."

"Oh that?" Dean said motioning to the sidewalk where brown droplets tricked across the pavement. He was wearing that same old shit eating grin, "I had absolutely nothing to do with that."

"Bullshit."

"Bullshit? Come on, I thought it would be like… turtle shit or something'.You're losing your originality, Cas!"

"Shut up!"

The two were now at a face off. One with a defiant, smirk; the other, a toxic glare.

Castiel was so very close at that point, to reaching over and slamming the man against his stupid CD racks and ripping him apart right then and there, but the smarter part of his brain kicked in, telling him there were better ways to go about this. Ways that presented much less of a risk at getting his two front teeth punched out.

Slowly the brunette stepped away, breaking the staring contest between him and his un-significant other.

"Peace be inside me, tolerance all around me, forgiveness in my path," Castiel muttered, backing away, never taking shifting his cold eyes from the man, "now, Mervall, show me where the filthy human is so that I may feed him his organs." (3*)

"Yeah, okay," Dean snorted, flicking a hand in the air as Castiel fled through the door and marching past his window. "Whatever the hell that means."

* * *

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* * *

_Notes:_

_(1*)- Castiel is being the witty little nerd he is and is quoting King's book 'The Stand'_  
_(2*)- Dean is 29 while Cas is 28. They are also the same height as they are in Supernatural, so Cas is truly 5'11 and Dean is 6'1.  
(3 *)- __This quote is from Eoin Colfer's 'Artemis Fowl: The Time Paradox'. Pretty vengeful._

Authors Notes: And there you go! First chapter, pretty long I know, they get loooonnnngerrrr. Please review it means soooo much love love love you all CYA!


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